


A Broken Bird

by LunaMoth116



Series: A Wider Circle (The Circleverse) [14]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Awesome Molly, Circle of Magi, Crossover, Drama, Friendship, Gen, Girl Saves Boy, Light Angst, Mage!Molly, Mage!Sherlock, Male-Female Friendship, One-Sided Relationship, Past Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Templar!John, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-14
Updated: 2014-06-14
Packaged: 2018-02-04 15:46:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1784524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LunaMoth116/pseuds/LunaMoth116
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“They couldn't have been more different; he was tall, dark, perpetually stoic and snarky when he wasn't; she was petite, fair, always ready with a smile as sweet as her nature.”  So why did Molly help Sherlock escape?</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Broken Bird

**Author's Note:**

> **TRIGGER WARNING: This story contains allusions to past attempted rape; nothing graphic or explicitly stated, and I've tried to be as tasteful as possible, but it's a bit of a grey area, so I've also tried to rate, warn, and tag accordingly. _Please_ let me know if I need to improve on it in any way.**
> 
> _I've always liked Molly, but it wasn't until Series 3 that I came to completely love her as a character. IMO, if there's any character who does not get nearly as much credit or love as xie deserves, it's her. If anything disappointed me about Reichenbach (which it didn't, for the most part), it was how minor Molly's role turned out to be. Which is why I was glad to give her more to do in this 'verse. (And I am always a fan of Girl Saves Boy.)_   
> _Please note, for any newcomers to this series (welcome, btw!), there are major spoilers for “A Small Sacrifice”, and certain parts may not make much sense if you haven't read at least that story. Also note that Sherlock's plan is explained in full in “A Type of Heaven”._   
> _Dedicated to Stef, who loves Molly just as much as I do, and continually helps me kick my writer's block (and flagging self-confidence) in the metaphorical nads. Here's to coming up on eight years of friendship (and thankfully much less tumultuous than that of Sherlock and Molly)! What do you say to trying for eighty? :)_
> 
> **Disclaimer:** _Like most amateur writers, I own nothing and live in a cardboard box on the street. :P_

“ _God loved the birds and invented trees. Man loved the birds and invented cages.”_

_~ Jacques Deval_

 

They couldn't have been more different; he was tall, dark, perpetually stoic and snarky when he wasn't; she was petite, fair, always ready with a smile as sweet as her nature. She was drawn to creation magic like a bird to the air; he flitted between subjects like a bee in a blossoming garden, and with a sting to match. She enjoyed several close friendships and tended to click well with most everyone she met. No one got along with him; at the Tower, most of his instructors simply tolerated his presence even as he excelled in their classes, and people were known to clear a path when they saw him coming.

So Molly Hooper was the last person you would have expected to help Sherlock Holmes claim his freedom.

But then, no one expected to see magpies snatching songbirds in flight, either. Yet they do.

o~O~o

The story began long before she ever met Sherlock. In fact, she felt it properly started when she was just eight years old, living happily with her family in a small village in Waking Sea.

It was an ordinary summer day, warm and sunny. She was playing in the yard with her beloved mabari, Dane, as she did nearly every day. Fetch was his favorite game in the world; they could play it all afternoon. But this time when she threw the stick, Dane ran into the nearby grove after it – and didn't come out.

Worried, she called for him, and his answering bark sounded...alarmed. She hurried into the grove, following the sound. Moments later she found him. To her relief, he was unharmed, but there was something at his feet.

She gasped when she saw it. A little rook, too big to be a hatchling but clearly not a grownup, with an injured wing. Gently, carefully, she picked it up, and it cawed pitifully in response. Looking up into the nearby trees, she didn't see a nest. How long had it been hurt? If she left it here, it might die. Maybe Mama would know what to do.

Molly left the grove with Dane at her heels, cradling the bird like a baby in her tiny hands. She couldn't explain it, but she _sensed_ the life in it, the tiny spark that told her this creature wasn't beyond saving. It cawed again, weaker than before, and she gently stroked its feathers, willing it to hold on to the little life it had left. Oh, if only there were something she could do, some way she could bring that life back...

She closed her eyes to pray, and imagined the rook healed and flying free as it should. As she did, she felt her hands grow strangely warm...

Dane barked as the rook cawed again, louder and stronger this time.

Opening her eyes, she gasped. Her hands were _glowing!_ As she stared, frightened and astonished, the rook stood up in her palm, looking completely unhurt. It looked at her with dark, beady eyes, and let out a single, grateful caw. Amazed, she lifted her little hands to the sky and the rook flew into the air, high and free. She watched it fly into the distance, a dark patch in the bright sky, and even waved it goodbye, sad to see it go but happy to see it soar.

When she turned around, she saw her mother and older sister standing there open-mouthed.

“Did you _see_ that?” she called excitedly. “Did you see what I just did?”

Yes, they had. She ran towards them eagerly, babbling the whole story, not understanding why her sister was looking at her like she was a snake poised to strike, or why her mother's eyes were suspiciously bright. And later, though she sank happily into his embrace, she didn't know why her father seemed to hug her just a little bit closer than normal.

Only Dane – sweet, innocent Dane – acted as though nothing had changed.

o~O~o

The templars collected her two days later, quietly and peacefully, and that was the last time she saw any of her family. Dane briefly tried to chase her, but her mother had a firm grip on his collar, and she did her best not to look back.

Off she went to the Circle Tower, and she managed to settle in well. She made some good friends, explored her powers and talents, and quickly discovered her gift for creation magic. By her thirteenth year, she knew she wanted to be a spirit healer, just like Wynne and Anders.

The eight years following her arrival at the Circle were uneventful, as far as this story was concerned. She learned and grew, in and out of the classroom, and not much else.

And then she met him.

Unlike him, she would never forget that day.

She had just turned sixteen. Years later, she wouldn't remember the date or even the time of day. All she would recall was walking into the men's apprentice quarters to look for her friend Kinnon – and seeing _him_ there, sitting at a desk near the doorway, surrounded by piles of books and scribbling madly on a piece of parchment, clad in awkwardly-fitting apprentice robes.

_Wow_ , was her first thought. _Tall_ , her second; even sitting, he utterly dwarfed the desk. Then he paused in his writing, lifting his head, and her third thought was, _Those cheekbones can't be real_.

_How have I not seen him before?_

Then he looked straight at her, and she was frozen by the piercing gaze of the most startling eyes she'd ever seen, standing out boldly against his pale complexion. Blue, green, gold – all the colors of a summer afternoon were blended in them. But there was nothing warm or pleasant about their stare. She felt the sudden urge to pull her robes tighter around herself, though he wasn't leering. No, rather he seemed to be...scrutinizing, like an eagle eying its prey, waiting for the perfect moment to swoop down and strike.

_Well, what are you waiting for? Don't be rude._

“Hello, I'm Molly,” she said cheerfully.

“And I don't care,” he replied coolly.

She blinked, startled not only by his rudeness, but by his rich baritone voice. “I'm sorry?”

He didn't seem to hear her, instead continuing to look her up and down. When he spoke again, the words came rapid-fire. “Turned sixteen years old this week, youngest of two daughters. Father works in a smithy, mother is a housewife. Your father writes to you more often than your mother, despite his illness. Older sister, married with one son whom you've never met, sends you birthday and Satinalia gifts when she remembers, but not much else. Born and raised in Waking Sea till you came here at the age of eight. Former owner of a once-rambunctious mabari, probably named after some hero from the old tales you admired, who is not long for this world and unlikely to be replaced. Studying in the School of Creation with aspirations of being a spirit healer, being mentored by Wynne. Just returning from several long hours in a lab practical – and no, you can scrub them raw, but your hands will still smell of elfroot for at least a week – and looking for your friend Kinnon to share the results. Haven't seen him here in three hours, by the way, so you really should go away and look elsewhere.”

“Um...yes,” she said slowly, hesitantly. “How –?”

“Good, you agree that your staying here is pointless and you should leave. Best of luck tracking him down.” He said the latter sentence without a trace of sincerity or goodwill. Instead, he waved his hand dismissively and returned to his writing.

“Wait.” She approached him, his contempt emboldening rather than dissuading her. No one had ever talked to her like that before. “I haven't told anyone about Dane. No one.”

“And no one told me,” he responded, not looking up from his work. She bent over and glanced at the title of the topmost book: _Devoured from Beneath_.

She waited a minute, then when it became clear he was pointedly ignoring her, she spoke up again. “So how did you –?”

He continued to write and thumb through his book, even turning a page as he talked. “If you don't mind – and you clearly do – I have to finish gathering data on how long Ferelden has before the Deep Roads cause the land to fall apart. It may be the difference between whether I spend my twenty-first birthday trapped in here or getting well acquainted with the darkspawn. Now, if you would –”

“Oh, I'm sorry! I – I didn't mean to interrupt you. It sounds...very important,” she finished lamely. The Deep Roads causing Ferelden to collapse? Who would even think about something like that, especially in here? She barely remembered the world outside the Tower.

“Well, it is, and you did, so –” He made a shooing motion with his free hand.

“Wait!” she protested over his sigh and eyeroll. “It doesn't seem, well, fair. You...you know so much about me, somehow, and I don't even know your name.”

He sighed again, more loudly this time. “And?”

“Isn't the saying _quid pro quo?_ ”

He finally looked at her then, and she felt her heart skip a beat as she took in all his distinctive features for the first time. “You know your Arcanum.”

Molly tilted her head. “Fourth in my class.”

Apart from a slight eyebrow raise, he didn't seem particularly impressed, but nonetheless he nodded, dark curls bobbing. “Very well. My name is Sherlock Holmes. Now, don't keep your friend waiting any longer. Knowing his habits, you may find him in the dining hall – try the library otherwise.” He returned to his writing, not seeing her astonished nod.

All right, she knew his name. Perhaps it was wise not to further push her luck.

As she walked out of the quarters, a little dazed, she looked up and saw a bird flying outside, past a barred window. _Well,_ she thought, _at least if Ferelden caves in_ you'll _be fine._

o~O~o

Most people wouldn't have bothered with him after that. But Molly wasn't most people. She was sixteen, after all, an age not exactly known for rationality.

And as it turned out, he was right about the elfroot, as he had been about everything else. So he saved her from scrubbing her hands down to the bone.

So from that day on, she tried to talk to him every chance she got. She might not have bothered if he'd had his own group of friends, or at least regular acquaintances – even awkward, quiet Jowan had those. But Sherlock didn't.

He stood out among – not to mention above – the hundreds of Circle mages. Tall, dark, and watchful, he made her think of those big blue birds she'd seen sometimes at the pond near her childhood home. Herons, they were called. And like them, she seldom saw him with anyone, except occasionally those he was assigned to work with. He might as well have been invisible for all anyone paid attention to him.

Not that he seemed to notice, either, for all he observed.

Unlike her, he never chose a specialization, so they didn't have many lessons together. She usually attempted to share meals with him, or sit with him in the library, or work near him in the laboratory. For the most part, he tolerated her presence, but he rebuffed most of her attempts at conversation. If she could get him to say more than three full sentences to her in a day, she considered it a success.

If he'd told her to leave him alone and stop annoying him, she would have. But he never did.

o~O~o

Even years later, she was never able to say exactly when her feelings started to change. But by then she knew enough to understand why. After all, how does a bird know exactly how many twigs go into a nest? It doesn't. It just gathers a bunch, starts weaving them together, and somehow just _knows_ when the last twig has been placed and the pile has become a home. A shift in feelings over a series of moments is often much the same.

However, like a stray sovereign gleaming in a tangle of sticks, one particular memory always stood out to her.

She'd found out through the ever-spreading Tower grapevine – vines always flourish somewhere on stone walls, whether outside or in – that he'd been taken to be Harrowed. Though only a few people she'd known had taken the mysterious test, not all of them had returned. _He'll be fine_ , she tried to reassure herself. _He can handle his magic. And you know how strong his will is._

None of those thoughts stopped her from worrying long into the night.

She awoke at her usual time the next morning, bleary-eyed from lack of sleep, with only one thought in her mind. Dressing and washing up in record time, she raced next door. When she arrived, what she saw made her sag against the door in relief. There he was, prone on his bed, fast asleep.

A few minutes later, as she sat beside his bed, she looked at the sun's rays lighting the window, and wondered how long he'd been asleep. She fidgeted with the cup of tea in her hand, wanting to reheat it one more time, make it the perfect temperature, but afraid of overheating and cracking the cup in her nervousness. (It wouldn't be the first time something like that had happened.)

Little by little, the morning light moved over his face, stealing her breath as it shone on his complexion, smooth and perfect. She'd never seen him like this – relaxed, peaceful...vulnerable. He began to stir, long lashes fluttering as his eyes slowly opened to look at her. She swallowed and licked her lips nervously.

“Hello, Sherlock,” she said shyly.

“Oh...hello, Molly,” he answered, sounding dispassionate rather than disappointed. His eyes fell to the steaming cup in her hand, and lit up with the avarice of a magpie. “Thank you,” he said as he sat up and took the cup from her.

“You're welcome. It was no trouble, really.” An awkward silence fell between them as he sipped and she squirmed.

“So...it went well?” she said finally.

He didn't seem to hear her as his gaze darted around, looking everywhere but at her. “Do you know where my staff is?”

She hazarded a guess, but didn't answer immediately. “Um, I heard Irving wanted to see you in his office. That's probably where it is.”

“Good.” Without warning, he swung his legs around, just missing her as he rose from the bed.

“Wait!” she called after him, after a moment's stunned silence.

He turned, seeming vaguely put out. “Yes?”

“Um...” She floundered briefly, searching for just the right words. “Could I have my teacup back?”

If there was ever a more pathetic line in the history of courtship, she'd never heard it.

“Oh. Yes.” He strode back over and handed it to her.

“Thank you. And, uh...” she said quickly, “what was it like? I – I know you probably can't really talk about it, but...was it hard? Do – do you think I could do it?”

He shrugged. “It was simple enough. You could manage.”

Before she could fully process that, he was gone.

Oh, she knew she'd been insulted. But...the Harrowing was a test of talent, wasn't it? And if he'd felt she wouldn't pass, he wouldn't have hesitated to say so. She knew that much, too.

So, he thought she had some talent.

Well, it was a start.

o~O~o

Of course, he wasn't wrong. The morning after she was Harrowed was the most exciting she'd ever had. She fought a demon – _a demon –_ in its natural habitat, and lived to tell the tale! Her dream of being a spirit healer now felt close enough to touch. Some of her friends were there to greet her when she woke up, and more approached throughout the day, with hugs, congratulations, and even a welcome gift or two from the older ones. She wore her brand-new robes and ring proudly, and looked at her fellow senior mages – _senior!_ It sounded so important! – with new respect.

She looked for him all day, but didn't meet him until she happened to be leaving the lab just as he was coming in. _Perfect_ , she muttered to herself; how was it she always managed to simultaneously have the best _and_ worst timing in the world?

She tried not to let it show as she smiled at him. “Hello, Sherlock.”

“Hello, Molly.” Then came the cursory once-over. “You were Harrowed.”

“Yes, last night,” she beamed. It was all she could do not to flash her ring, identical to the one he wore on his left fourth finger.

“Fine,” he responded, without even a hint of a smile, and moved past her into the lab. “Let me know how that synthetic distillation agent turns out. My proposed crafting treatise depends on it.”

She received some more good wishes before the day was over, but all of them felt hollow.

o~O~o

Like the herons, he never seemed to notice her until she got just a little too close.

And then he'd fly, leaving her startled and alone.

o~O~o

She'd never run so fast in her life.

Huddled in the corner of the closet, knees pulled to her chest, Molly rocked back and forth, struggling to control her breathing. Despite how hot and stuffy the small space was, she shivered as drafts slipped through the cracks, felt them raw through the rips in her robes.

How...how could she have been so stupid? She shouldn't have gone down that hallway alone; she _must_ have known hardly anyone would be there this time of day. She might as well have just walked straight up to that templar – Maker, she didn't even know his name, though he seemed to know her quite well – and told him to have his way with her.

But, Maker be praised, it didn't happen.

Oh, if those mages hadn't passed by when they did...

They must have seen her running. _Why didn't they do anything?_

She shook her head vehemently, her disheveled ponytail coming loose against her neck.

It couldn't have happened.

Not to her.

But it almost did.

Wrapped up in her racing thoughts, she didn't hear the approaching footsteps.

There was a knock on the closet door. Without waiting for an answer, it was opened, light flooding the small space.

“Molly?”

She froze. She'd know that voice in a chorus.

Oh Maker, why _him?_ Why _now?_

It took her a few moments to look up at him. He'd always diminished her, in more ways than one, but now he absolutely towered over her small, scrunched-up body, his shadow engulfing her form. Desperately, she tried to stop herself from shaking, tasting blood when she bit her lip.

“Sherlock,” she whispered, her voice dry and raspy.

He did not blink as he looked her over, with that piercing gaze she'd come to know so well.

Her heartbeat rivaled that of a hummingbird. She waited in shuddering anticipation, a rabbit cornered by an eagle with talons wide, for him to say it: _You were nearly violated by a templar_. _His name was..._

He started to open his mouth...then abruptly closed it and did not speak for a few moments.

“You look terrible,” was all he said.

Stunned, all she could do was blink. That was all? Nothing else to say?

At long last, she felt the comforting tingle of mana beginning to trickle back into her body, the effects of the smite finally dissipating. She swallowed the sob that threatened to erupt. Then she sat up straight, met his eyes and said a cool, calm, “Thank you.”

And in a strange, unexpected way, his comment comforted her more than it hurt. She knew that he knew what had happened. Even if no one else believed her, he knew the truth.

Why him, indeed.

He looked as if he were about to say something else, but did not. Instead, he merely nodded and departed, leaving her alone again.

The instant he was gone, she pulled the doors closed, let her head drop to her knees, and cried through eyes squeezed shut as tightly as the closet. The walls pressed in on her, almost comforting in their confinement.

Thankfully, Petra arrived just minutes later, found her straightaway, and was only too glad to accompany her to Irving's office.

o~O~o

Molly didn't see Sherlock again for a few days after the incident. When she did, it was not a planned encounter.

She was in the library, checking out some books for an essay on the history of Tevinter weaponry. To her relief, she heard him before she saw him. Normally, she would be measuring ingredients or buried in a book or stacking papers, and she would look up to suddenly see him before her, a new request in hand. But this time, his footsteps were louder, more deliberate than they usually were, and she had sufficient warning of his approach.

She looked up from the stack she was balancing under her chin, did her best to smile. “Hello, Sherlock.”

“Hello, Molly.” He made no move to help her. “You went to Irving, didn't you?”

She didn't have to ask what he was referring to. Molly's lips pressed together, but she made an effort to sound neutral. “Yes.” _And what business is it of yours?_ she did not say.

His tone was curious, rather than concerned. “Why?”

Oh, it was starting to feel like being in front of Irving and Greagoir all over again, having to recount the whole awful story. _What do you care?_ she wanted to demand. But she had always been taught to never respond to rudeness with rudeness. So she took a deep breath, shifted the books in her hands for a better grip, and answered, “Because what happened to me shouldn't happen to anyone else. He won't lay a finger on anyone else here as long as I can do something about it.”

“Even if the investigation does not go in your favor?”

She set her jaw, kept her tone as even and controlled as her breathing. “No matter what, I'll make sure he never hurts another mage.”

Sherlock just raised an eyebrow.

“ _Never_ ,” she repeated. Feeling bolder, she added, “I'm sure you would do the same.”

Sherlock was still for a moment, then merely nodded. “I see. Thank you.” And before she could say anything more, he was gone.

He never treated her differently after that, for which she was immensely thankful. These weren't circumstances under which she wanted him to start being nice to her. No, regardless of what one templar had tried to do to her, she was still just...Molly. Just another adoring admirer, just another fellow student and prisoner, just another person who could somehow tolerate his presence for longer than two minutes.

Just another mage.

o~O~o

She was luckier than most. It took several months – during which time she was careful to never be alone and slept in a different bed every night – but her attacker was eventually dishonorably discharged and expelled from the Tower, ordered never to return or be killed on sight. His mistake lay in draining her magic before she had even attempted anything, destroying his claim of self-defense when he was found not to have a mark on him. The pair of mages who'd inadvertently saved her also gave valuable testimony – once they'd been found and questioned. Following his expulsion, several other female mages came forward to say that he had done the same – and worse – to them.

Molly wouldn't find out until much later that, of his own accord, Sherlock had also provided a written statement of conclusive deductions based on his own observations when he found her in the closet. It was entered into the record, but wasn't needed, and he was never called as a witness.

She returned to her own bed, to sleep a little easier, and after some time was once again comfortable with being alone – which she preferred, for a long time. But the friendly smile she used to give each templar was replaced with no eye contact and a hurried pace. She recoiled at every unexpected touch, and sometimes even those she was prepared for. Before all this, she was never even nearly as promiscuous as some of her friends, but now the thought of intimacy completely repulsed her.

As was exemplified by another healer-in-training she met in lessons. They studied together, worked on a couple projects, and found they had much in common outside the classroom. After one particularly intense study session, they'd sought stress relief and somehow ended up in a corner, all tongues and hands and tangled limbs. His deft fingers made their way to the fastenings of her robe; within seconds her robe was open, and his hands began to caress her breasts –

She froze, paralyzed by memory. Puzzled, he pulled back, and when he did, she fought to keep her emotions in check, trying to control her now-harried breathing. Instead of his handsome face, she saw her attacker's, and the blood drained from her own.

The sharp tang of lyrium on his breath...

The rough scrape of stubble against her neck...

“Is something wrong?” He looked at her, concerned as she began to shake, biting her lip raw, fighting tears.

“I – I can't do this. I'm sorry.”

So saying, she quickly pushed him away and ran back to the safety of her bed, where she spent the rest of the afternoon, soaking her blanket with tears, trying to push the pictures from her mind.

Thankfully, he respected her wishes and remained friendly to her, but their relationship never progressed beyond that of casual acquaintances. The same occurred with other mages she attempted relationships with over the next few years – one, two, then three.

So perhaps her continuing attachment to _him_ was not entirely unprecedented. Sherlock wouldn't ever try to touch her; he could barely tolerate being brushed against in the hall. She'd never have to worry that he had an ulterior motive in continuing their...association. There was no pretense with him, no mistaking how he truly felt.

He was safe.

o~O~o

His eyes reminded her a little of robin's eggs. While her memories of home were scarce, and growing more so with each passing year, one that remained was of her father lifting her on his shoulders to see the new nest in their tree each spring and count the contents; weeks later, he'd bring the nest in for her to keep, by then a mess of twigs and eggshells, remnants of the happy family that had once called it home. She wished she had just one of those nests here.

She wondered if Sherlock knew what robin's eggs looked like.

But oh, when their gaze was turned on you, there was nothing robin-like about his eyes then. They made Molly think of exploring the woods with her sister when they were younger. She couldn't remember how the sunlight felt on her face or the scent of fresh pine, but she would never forget the day they emerged from the trees and saw a hawk perched high above, silent and vigilant.

She'd wondered then what the hawk saw from its roost, beady eyes unmoving. Did it see the world spread out before it? Or did it only see what it was looking for, rather than what was there?

Then, with a screech, the hawk took flight, circling in the air above a nearby field. They'd followed it from the ground, admiring the spread of those magnificent wings. And then, as she and her sister watched in amazement, the hawk seemed to spot something and dove straight from the air, tucking in its wings, plunging towards the earth. In seconds it had snatched a smaller bird mid-flight and flown off, prize firmly in talon.

Every time she saw Sherlock at work, she thought of that hawk. Circling and observing until he found just what he was looking for and nothing else, and zeroing in on his target with deadly precision once he had it. Then he'd take off, bounty won, ready to start all over again once he was finished.

But no hawk can fly forever. There are differences, subtle but important, between a dive and a fall.

She just hoped he knew what they were.

o~O~o

Her father died when she was twenty-six years old.

After receiving her mother's letter informing her of the news, she spent the rest of the day crying in bed, thankfully excused from lessons. Her friends all gathered around her in sympathy and support, and talked about how much they wished they had known him. Molly wished she had, too. Eight years growing up and eighteen years' worth of correspondence was hardly enough time to spend with the only father she'd ever have.

When Irving learned what had happened, he offered permission for her to attend the funeral, but she declined. She would have to be escorted by templars, and couldn't bear the thought of her mother and sister seeing her in handcuffs. She would mourn for her father on her terms, in her own ways.

Did they even want to see her after all this time? They'd managed just fine without her this long. She'd never even met her brother-in-law or nephew. It would be strange now, going home – if she ever left here. It wasn't even her childhood home anymore; her parents had moved to a new, smaller house after her sister's wedding. Nothing would be as she remembered.

But at least, she thought somewhat guiltily, she _did_ have a place to go back to. Many mages in this tower could not say the same; the Circle was the only home they'd ever have. 

She wondered if that was true of Sherlock.

Some birds fly in flocks, others all alone. But regardless of how they travel, most birds have a nest to return to at the end of the day, where their family waits. Those that do not make their home wherever they happen to be. 

How awful it would be, she mused, to fly free and yet have no true place to land. 

A place to stay, rather than just rest a while. 

 o~O~o

Sometimes she felt as though she and Sherlock were dancing.

Oh, not the Remigold or the waltz or any of the myriad number of formal dances she'd never have the chance to learn and he'd never have the interest in. No, their dances had a different sort of choreography. He led and she followed, and the pattern seldom varied. He'd come to her only when he wanted something – help with an experiment, results from one of her own, some kernel of knowledge only she seemed to possess or that only she was willing to give him, since he wasn't on speaking terms with most other enchanters – and she'd agree to help, foolishly hoping for another chance. They would work side-by-side, in a rhythm they'd developed over the years that worked well just for them. Then he, satisfied, his part finished, would cut out and leave her standing there, with nothing but another missed opportunity and another broken promise that she _would stop torturing herself like this_.

Molly knew, from some reading she'd done on the side, that some courtships in nature followed a similar method. Once the male had what he wanted from the female, she was left to her own devices and seemed perfectly content. But that was nature's design, and nature made sure the female benefited from the arrangement as well. It wasn't as though she didn't get anything out of their experiments or research, she thought. She often gained new knowledge and chances for advancement of her own work. So what if she never heard a simple “thank you”, or _any_ acknowledgment of how valuable her contributions were?

Maybe nature knew what she was doing.

Maybe it was simply easier this way. Less complicated, less potential for more hurt feelings on both sides if things didn't work out long-term.

That was what she kept telling herself, anyway.

o~O~o

She never had reason to believe anything would change. Until one day in the library when he asked her to help him research some balms he was thinking of developing.

They were sitting across from each other at a table near the main entrance, books stacked well over their heads, having already gone through a bottle of ink apiece. There was movement at the doorway, and they automatically glanced up to see who it was.

Oh. A templar, probably just coming on duty. Molly didn't think much else of him. She recognized him – what was his name? Wilkins? Wallace? No, Watson, that was it. Ser Watson. They'd only spoken in passing a few times, but by all accounts he was one of the kinder templars in the Circle. That was all she knew about him.

Molly was just about to return to her work when she caught a glimpse of Sherlock – and as he looked at Ser Watson, what she saw made her heart stop.

She saw it then – the telltale dilation of the pupils. She heard it, too – the just barely noticeable hitch in his breath. Maker...they even mirrored each other's body language in their head tilts of acknowledgment.

He'd made his choice.

It wasn't her. It might never have been her.

And a _templar?_ Of all people in this tower, a _templar?_

_Oh, please_ , an inner voice scoffed. _Like you ever had a chance._

The thought wasn't comforting.

She did not cry. She did not even gasp. Instead, she took a deep breath and carried on as if she'd seen nothing. After a minute, so did Sherlock.

She didn't know how long they worked like that, her discomfort growing with every passing minute, until she finally couldn't bear it any longer. She swallowed and spoke up. “Sherlock, we have been working for a while. I was wondering...would you like to have a cup of tea?”

“Certainly,” he replied, without looking up. “Chamomile if you have it, yarrow if you don't. Water heated just to boiling and not a fraction above, in –”

And as she stared in utter disbelief, desperately fighting the tears that had only stung at her eyes minutes before, something unexpected happened.

Ser Watson cleared his throat.

Sherlock looked up at the sound, and though Molly only saw them briefly from the corner of her eye, it was clear a look passed between them. She couldn't explain or define it, but she sensed something had been said, with no words spoken.

No communication was more powerful than the nonverbal kind.

Suddenly Sherlock turned his attention back to her, his voice a bit softer. “Actually, never mind, Molly. I'll make my own. We can have a tea break in five minutes. How does that sound?”

“'We'?” She tried not to goggle at him, hardly even able to smile.

“Yes, 'we'. This is a joint effort, is it not? If we work together, we should share our breaks as well. Efficiency and all.”

She just nodded, doing her best not to gape at Ser Watson before returning to work.

On her way out, she gave him a half-smile – the first friendly expression she'd given a templar in a long time.

Lose one thing, gain something better. A balance was achieved. Perhaps that was how it had to be.

o~O~o

She noticed another change in Sherlock not long after that.

He'd never been able to sit still for as long as she'd known him, but now he was positively antsy. When they were in the lab, he was forever striding up and down by the table while waiting for results, and oftentimes she half-expected him to climb on the table and start doing somersaults just to ease the tension. In the library he was always getting up to retrieve some other insignificant text or making some other excuse just to be on his feet.

_Like a trapped animal_ , Molly thought.

Or – somewhat more positively – like a hatchling ready to take wing.

Later, she wondered if he'd always been pacing the cage and she just hadn't noticed till then.

Moreover, was it because he finally felt ready to fly?

o~O~o

“How do you do it, Molly?”

Sherlock asked her the question while they were in a quiet corner of the lab, sitting before a series of flasks and watching the reactions caused by a small electrical charge applied to the contents in each one. Molly looked up from the notes she was taking, puzzled.

“How do I do what?”

“Deal with –” he gesticulated wildly, vaguely, at the general area around them “– this. Life here. Being trapped. Not even having a say in when you can get up or go to bed. Not being able to shoot lightning at idiots. Always being under someone else's scrutiny, someone else's thumb.”

“Well, as for the scrutiny, I suppose you just get used to it after a while,” she said, almost dryly. “But everything else – I don't know. I haven't really known any other kind of life. Even before I came here, my parents were always protective of my sister and me, so I guess I'm just used to being looked out for. Looked after.”

“You think of it like that? Being looked after? Not watched?”

She shrugged. “Well, in a way they are looking out for us. The templars, I mean. Making sure we don't misuse our powers or turn to blood magic for amusement. There are good reasons...for them to be in control.” She gripped the table, closed her eyes briefly.

Sherlock continued to study her. “Even when they take more control than they are due?”

Molly bit her lip, exhaled. Her voice was tight. “I suppose you're referring to what happened to me all those years ago?”

Sherlock did not answer. Molly turned to him, indignant now. “May I ask _why_ you feel the need to question me about this?”

Again, he was silent. Just before she was about to give up and get back to work, he spoke. “I haven't been able to figure you out any other way.”

She stared at him, stunned. He continued, “If anyone should have chafed long ago under life here, it should have been you. Especially after what happened with that templar.”

Molly just shrugged again. “There's not much to figure out about me, Sherlock. I'm not that complicated.”

“Certainly not.” And there was the stealth insult. “But why aren't you broken?”

Her jaw almost dropped. “Come again?”

“The aim of keeping us here, guarded, trapped like rats –” he motioned toward the cages of white lab mice off to the side to illustrate his point “– watching our every move, is to break us, to make sure we are chained here mentally as well as physically. That much is clear. But it's never happened to you. Even before the...incident, they never had a hold on you.” His gaze was intense. “Why?”

She spoke thoughtfully, carefully choosing her words. “Well, I've never really thought of it that way, but since you asked...I suppose I just don't _let_ them hold me. This place isn't ideal, certainly, but what's the alternative? Being hated and feared by everyone I pass in the street just for being as the Maker made me? Here, I have great friends, and work that I love. I'm more than just a mage, Sherlock. I'm more than just my circumstances.” She smiled. “I'm, well, _me_. And yes, bad things have happened to me here, and I would never wish them on anyone else. But they've made me who I am, and I'm okay with that. That's more important than _what_ I am, or what they want me to be.”

He looked at her curiously, but before he could speak, she went on, “And I'm not going to pretend that I have it all together, all the time. No one does. But I don't think of myself as 'broken', Sherlock. And even if I did, that wouldn't mean there's no hope. Broken things can be fixed. Maybe they won't be as good as new, but they'll be better off than before.” Like a bird's wing, she mused to herself. Or a heart.

He turned back to the flasks, scribbling notes. “It must be nice to be able to delude yourself with such optimism.”

She shrugged. “If you want to think of it like that. Well, there's your answer.”

“Indeed.” Neither of them said anything for a few minutes as they continued working. Then, as she moved away slightly to check on another setup, she heard him speak.

“I...owe...you.”

Perplexed, she wondered if she'd heard correctly. “What did you mean, 'I owe you'?”

He didn't answer, keeping his attention firmly fixed on the flasks.

She tried again. “You said 'I owe you'. You were muttering it while you were working.”

“Nothing. Mental note.”

She tilted her head as she looked at him. “You're a bit like my father. He's dead.” Embarrassed, she closed her eyes briefly. “No, sorry.”

“Molly, _please_ don’t feel the need to make conversation.” He still wasn't looking at her. “It’s really not your area.”

She cringed, but went on. He'd ignored her long enough; she wasn't about to waste the few precious seconds she had of his attention.

“When I was a little girl and he was...sick, he was always cheerful; he was lovely – except when he thought no one could see. I saw him once. He looked sad. I don't remember much else about him.”

“Molly...” His voice was stern; she was undeterred.

“ _You_ look sad...” She paused. “When you think _he_ can't see you.” She gestured towards the hall where John was quietly standing guard, just visible from the doorway. Sherlock finally turned and looked at her.

“ _Are_ you okay?” she asked quietly. He opened his mouth to answer, but she quickly said, “And don’t just say you are, because I know what that means, looking sad when you think no one can see you.”

“ _You_ can see me.”

“I don't count.”

He blinked, as if coming out of a trance, and for the first time she didn't feel scrutinized under his gaze – rather, examined. As if the hawk had brought its prey back to the nest and was giving it a good look over before devouring it, to make sure it was acceptable.

“What I’m trying to say is that, if there’s anything I can do, anything you need, anything at all, you can have _me_.” Did she really just say that? “No, I just mean...I mean if there’s anything you need...” She shook her head. “It's fine.”

She turned away, started to move towards the door.

His voice, sounding shaken, stopped her. “What – what – what could I need from you?”

She turned back to him and shrugged. “Nothing. I dunno.” Then, feeling bold, she added, “You could probably say thank you, actually.”

And she nodded, nervously but firmly. Sherlock's mouth twitched ever so slightly.

“...Thank you,” he said hesitantly, as if the words tasted like paint on his tongue. Then he frowned, turning away.

She continued to walk off. “I'm going to get some water, maybe a piece of fruit. Would you like anything?"

He began to answer, but she turned back. “It’s okay, I know you don’t.”

“Well, actually, maybe I’ll...”

She just looked at him. “I know you don’t.”

Then she headed out the door, not looking back again.

She didn't realize it till later, but at that moment the hawk had either spotted its prey or was about to be shot from the sky.

Either way, there was going to be a fall.

o~O~o

It was another quiet afternoon in the lab when he came to her a few weeks later. So quiet, in fact, that she didn't notice him until she heard, “You're wrong, you know.”

Startled, she gasped and whirled around. There he was, the only other person in the lab at the moment. Though he was standing near her, he was looking off into the distance.

“Wrong about what?”

“You _do_ count. You've always counted and I've always trusted you.”

She tilted her head, unsure where he was going with this. He finally turned to look at her.

“But you _were_ right. I'm not okay.”

There was only one thing she could say to that. “Tell me what's wrong.”

Gradually, he approached her, as tentatively as a spring robin hunting a worm, careful not to alert others to its presence, looking straight at her as if she were the only thing in existence.

“I can't believe it took me so long to figure this out...but when it came to you and me, I had it backwards.” At her frown, he clarified, “Between the two of us...you were never the one who was broken.”

She began to understand then, as her heart melted for him. And then he went on.

“Molly...I think I'm going to die.”

Her eyes widened slightly in surprise.

She had her chance now. She could get him back for the way he'd treated her all these years when she'd shown him nothing but kindness. She could leave him flustered and floundering just as he'd left her so many times. _Good riddance_ , she could say, or perhaps, _That's nice. Will I merit a footnote in your obituary?_ Or even the simple, devastating, _How does it feel?_

But she didn't.

She simply asked, “What do you need?”

He didn't answer right away.

Slowly, he said, “If I wasn't everything that you think I am, everything that _I_ think I am...would you still want to help me?”

And in that moment she'd never felt more sympathy for him. So alone, even when surrounded by people who loved him. Alone in togetherness. A strange contradiction. Perhaps that was a mage's lot, she supposed. But perhaps it was just as much choice as circumstance.

She repeated her earlier question: “What do you need?”

As with everything else he'd said, his answer was as wholly unexpected as it was earnest.

“You.”

o~O~o

He told her the plan in a quiet corner of the library, where they wouldn't risk being seen or overheard. She listened carefully, even made some notes on a spare piece of parchment. When he'd finished explaining, he finally asked, “It's possible, isn't it?”

She nodded slowly. “From what I've read – yes, it should be. I'll tweak the formula and run some tests. Bill Wiggins should be able to help me get the supplies. You know no one will listen to him if he talks.” She shook her head sadly, thinking of poor Wiggins. Lost to the lyrium so long ago, kept around only because there was nowhere else for him to go.

“How long will everything take?”

She thought. “Probably a week at most. The poison's easy enough to make on its own; getting the toxicity right is going to be the hard part. Is that enough time?”

“Yes...yes, that should be fine. And I can show you how to do the rest in the meantime.”

“All right. The lab's closing in an hour. I'll see what I can do before then.”

“Thank you, Molly.” After a pause, he said, “There is one last thing I need you to do for me.”

“Anything, Sherlock.”

“I know.” Reaching into the pocket of his robe, he pulled out a small square box. He opened it to reveal a little glass vial filled with red fluid, encased in a gold-plated circle and hanging from a chain.

She took the box and examined the vial more closely. It was engraved with Tevinter lettering, and when she turned it over to read it, she gasped. “Sherlock, is this...?”

“Yes.” He looked her in the eye. “This is to be given to John Watson, but not until I tell you to.”

“John Watson the templar?”

Sherlock looked a little surprised at that, as if only just remembering that John was, in fact, a templar, before returning to his usual sarcasm. “No, John Watson the beekeeper, not to be confused with John Watson the baker or John Watson the bookkeeper. Yes, John Watson the templar.” His gaze was now cold and hard. “Until then, guard it with your life. And of course, say nothing to him or anyone else of what we've planned.”

“Of course.” She tucked the box into an inner robe pocket. “I promise I won't say a word. You can trust me.”

“I do, Molly. I always have. Thank you again.” And to her great surprise, he leaned in and kissed her cheek.

It would have been so easy to just turn her head, catch his lips against hers, finally have the moment she'd always dreamed about...but she did not. She just nodded.

“It's nothing, Sherlock.”

As they rose to go, he shook his head in response. “Not to me, it isn't.”

What he said before he left startled her most.

“And you aren't, either.”

o~O~o

The plan came together not a moment too soon. A week of preparing and testing and mixing and experimenting later, they were ready to go. All she had to do was wait for the right time, whenever that would be.

Of course, she did not know that time would come at the most devastating moment in the Tower's history.

She knew nothing until Sherlock found her in the library that fateful evening, reading and making notes for an upcoming thesis. Sensing something, she'd looked up from her book, and there he was, looking almost worried.

“Sherlock, what's wrong?”

“Now, Molly,” was all he said.

“I'm sorry?”

“The plan, Molly. We have to execute it _now_.”

“What? Why?”

He shook his head impatiently. “Uldred's meeting with the senior enchanters has been going on far longer than it should have. Something is going to happen. This may be our only chance.”

“What's going to happen?”

Sherlock bit his lip, his answer seeming to leave a bitter taste in his mouth. “I wish I knew.”

The look in his eyes was enough to convince her. Quickly, she put her things away and followed him to his quarters, careful to be inconspicuous, two birds before the storm. They retrieved their supplies from a secret cache, slipped downstairs to an empty first floor classroom, and got to work.

About an hour later, the first part of the plan was done. With little more than gelatin, beeswax, charcoal, and water, she'd made up his face and hands to look as if he'd been horribly burned. If she hadn't had to work so fast, she might have had a bit more fun. Looking into a mirror she'd handed him, he nodded, unable to smile through the makeup but looking pleased nonetheless.

“How do I look?” he asked her.

“Perfect,” she replied. 

He tilted his head in response to her smile. “Thank you,” he said, not sounding as arrogant as she would have expected. “And the poison?”

“Right here.” She pulled the flask from her robe pocket and handed it to him. The fluid inside was a harsh shade of bluish-pink, almost painful to look at. “I upped the concentration of knockout agents so you'll go unconscious quickly – you'll collapse where you stand, and you'll only have about thirty seconds to throw the flask away, but you won't have to deal with the headaches and vomiting.”

“Most considerate. Thank you.”

“It was my pleasure.”

“Poisoning me? Or making my 'death' as comfortable as possible?”

She chuckled, appreciating the gallows humor. “Both, if you want to think of it like that.” They were quiet for a few moments. “Now what?”

“Now you finish preparing the backpack and keep safe. Do not stay on this floor under any circumstances. And then we wait.”

She nodded. “Okay. I'll try to find Petra and Kinnon upstairs. So...I guess I'll see you in the next three days, then?”

“Yes. And Molly...thank you again.”

She wanted to pull him towards her, hug him, reassure him with all the love she had. Afraid of ruining the makeup, she simply reached out and squeezed his shoulder. “It's going to be fine, Sherlock. _You're_ going to be fine. And so will John.”

He nodded, as if he believed her. The trust in his eyes, starkly blue against the red of his artificial burns, had never been clearer.

He knew the risk he was asking her to take. And he also knew she was the only one who would.

o~O~o

It had been two days.

Two days since Arya Surana's return and rescue, two days since Molly's home of more than twenty years was almost destroyed by one man's greed, two days since so many of her friends died painfully and senselessly, two days since she'd poisoned the only man she'd ever loved.

She needed to wake him up soon, or...or...oh, she didn't want to think about it. But there were a lot of other things she didn't want to think about, either, so focusing on Sherlock was what kept her going. At least one person she cared about would survive.

Breaking into the basement would have been easy enough. She'd just need the help of a templar trainee, or a Chantry initiate, or... No. They'd ask questions, probably insist on accompanying her. Too risky.

And even if it hadn't been, she didn't feel right about it. She'd seen Ser Watson a handful of times in passing since that night, and the constant sadness on his face, coupled with her own grief, was sometimes more than she could bear. She wanted to run up to him, tell him everything, give him the precious package that was entrusted to her what felt like a lifetime ago, order him to go after the mage he loved and knock some much-needed sense into him.

But she didn't.

She'd promised. What could she do?

_Yes,_ she thought. _What_ can _I do?_

There was only one thing she could give John, aside from trite, empty words of comfort. She could give him the chance to say goodbye.

And, she realized after a minute's consideration, she could help herself at the same time.

That revelation was secondary.

It wasn't difficult to find him. In early evening, just after supper, she waited just down the hall from the senior mage quarters. He arrived minutes later and went inside; quietly, she followed.

The look on his face broke her heart. She saw his closed eyes, bitten lip, and clenched fists, and had to bite the inside of her cheeks to keep from blurting out everything she knew.

_I have to make this right._

Boldly, she approached him.

“Something you need?”

He turned, surprised to see her. As they talked – really talked – for the first time, tentatively yet comfortably, it quickly became clear why Sherlock had chosen him. As much as you could choose who you fell in love with, at least.

Sherlock was lucky. They both were.

Feeling at ease, she told him to call her by her first name.

And after he asked her to come downstairs with him, he told her his.

o~O~o

Things couldn't have worked out better if she'd planned them.

She smiled a little to herself as she followed John to the basement, careful not to let him see. Together, they opened the entrance, and she gave him a soft smile of encouragement as she started to walk away. She kept walking until he had looked away, then ducked behind a nearby bed. Picking up the backpack she had stashed there earlier – purchased from the quartermaster – she waited. 

Moments later, he opened the door and walked in. Quickly but quietly, she rushed to the door, just making it in time to slip inside before it closed. Thankfully, Ser Watson was some distance away and so lost in his own thoughts that he didn't seem to hear her. She followed him as closely as she dared, ducking behind corners, statues, and pillars, careful to wait till he was out of earshot before whispering the password to the Sentinels.

She forced herself to stay calm at the sight of the bodies, deliberately making an effort not to look at their faces. She had no wish to see her friends this way; she'd already said her own goodbyes.

A couple minutes later, John found Sherlock, in a side room just off the second set of stairs. Molly hid in another room at the foot of those stairs, warming herself with some balms she'd prepared earlier, clenching her teeth to stop them chattering. She didn't dare use magic.

She listened to John's last goodbye, each word splintering her heart as slowly and surely as ice splitting a rock. Closing her eyes, she fought the tears, wiping away the few that escaped. She had to grip a nearby shelf to stop herself from running up the stairs and telling him that if he'd just give her a minute, maybe two, he'd see a miracle as she raised the dead.

Quietly, she shook her head. They'd come this far; she wasn't about to sabotage it. 

After a while, she heard John tell Sherlock to enjoy his freedom, and for the first time since she'd entered the basement, she allowed herself to smile. A few moments later, he walked past the little room, seeming to stand a little straighter than he had before. She counted under her breath, waiting for his footsteps to fade and the sound of the door closing. When she reached two hundred fifty and heard nothing but silence, she dashed out of the room, pack in hand, and up the steps.

John had cleared a small path to Sherlock, so finding him took only seconds. As she knelt at his side, she noted the small, frozen splotches near the body. Tears, probably.

She pulled a bowl, flask, and cloth from her bag, filled the bowl with water, then warmed it with a single spark. Carefully, she washed the makeup from his face and skin. As she worked, the burns, scars, and blisters gradually disappeared, revealing the striking features that had caught her eye all those years ago.

Once his face was clean, she quickly pulled a second flask from her belt, uncorked it and gently poured the contents between his lips, massaging his neck as she did so, careful not to spill a drop.

There was a time when being this close to him, touching him in such a way, would have sent her pulse through the roof and hastened her breathing, but such impulses were now suppressed by practicality.

He finished swallowing. His eyelashes fluttered. A finger twitched. Of course it wasn't enough.

Putting away the flask, she pressed her hands to his chest, closed her eyes, and concentrated. In moments she heard it, a sound undetectable by any ear. What she heard was the whisper of life that clung to him, the delicate thread suspending him between this world and the Fade, and she grasped it in the way only one gifted with the consciousness of both worlds could. She called to that whisper in the silence, that single spark in the darkness, in the words dear Wynne and others taught her, in ancient language both spoken and unspoken.

And the whisper grew louder in response.

Her chanting rose to match it. She drew ever further on her power, willing her mana to heal all the wounds she couldn't see, fix all the damage she'd been partially responsible for.

_Come back to us, Sherlock_ , her thoughts echoed across the chasm. _Maker, guide my hand._

_You need to wake up now. I need you to wake up for me, Sherlock._

_Ser Watson – John – needs you. Wake up._

Suddenly, in a matter of moments, the whisper blossomed into a cry, the spark was fanned into a blaze, and life poured back into Sherlock Holmes.

The last of Molly's mana flowed through her, her link to the Fade finally snapping from the strain, and she collapsed on top of him, completely spent.

Sherlock's eyes flew open and a loud cough echoed in the chamber. Still sprawled across him, she abruptly turned her head to look at him as his chest began to rise and fall. Piercing blue eyes stared back at her, warm and alive.

“Oh, thank the Maker!” she almost sobbed, hugging him to her chest, closing her eyes and murmuring every prayer she could think of in gratitude. 

“No,” she heard in response, muffled against her robes.

Realizing what she was doing, she quickly released him and sat up, swallowing hard when she saw his face. His expression was...grateful? Relieved? Proud? All three?

He shook his head just slightly, seeing her confusion.

“No...thank _you_ , Molly.”

All she could do was smile at that, even as the exhaustion crept up on her. She reached for yet another flask in her belt and uncorked it. It contained the strongest lyrium potion she could make. “Here,” she said, pressing it into his hand. “This'll give your mana a nice kick.”

Gently, she helped him sit up and drink the potion. Quickly but carefully, she helped him to stand, then walk, giving no thought to her own fatigue. Gradually he recovered his faculties, and within minutes he was able to stand on his own.

“How do you feel?” she asked.

“Fine. Do you have everything?”

“Of course. I'm ready when you are,” she said.

He chuckled. “Then you've been ready for far longer than tonight.”

She smiled. “Indeed.”

After quickly double-checking to make sure she hadn't left any non-essential items inside, she handed him the backpack. He opened it to inspect the contents, nodding with approval. There wasn't much – a couple health poultices, three lyrium potions, a few crafting supplies, a waterskin, a small knife – just enough for him to make it to civilization. There were also a few books – preselected by Sherlock and wrapped in brown paper, so she didn't know what they were – and a skull belonging to a small animal. And she had put in something else for him, something he didn't ask her for. Not long after the Tower was secure again, she had slipped down to the kitchens and stolen as much food as she could carry that wouldn't spoil – dried fruit and meat, biscuits, even some cookies.

For the first time that night, she saw him look at her with surprise. For the second time, she saw gratitude.

He even suggested she keep some of the food, just to lighten his load a bit. Molly carefully wrapped the rest in cloth, thinking some of the children must be hungry. After one last look, they were both satisfied with the pack's contents and Sherlock closed it.

“Well, I guess that's everything, then –” she started.

“Not quite.” Before she could answer, Sherlock was already rushing off down the hall, robes flaring with each stride of those long legs.

“Where are you going?”

“To receive compensation.” Before she could ask further, he had whirled around the corner.

To her relief, he returned moments later – and her jaw dropped in astonishment as she saw him clutching one of the most amazing staves she'd ever seen, rivaling even the beauty of the famed Staff of the Magister Lord (which she'd been lucky to even get a glimpse of). It was silverite, almost as tall as he was, glittering with lyrium engravings of stars. He saw her slack-jawed admiration and grinned smugly.

“Its name is Heaven's Wrath,” he told her proudly.

“I've never seen anything like it. It's so beautiful!” She stared in amazement, then shyly held out her hand. “May I?” She might never have another chance to hold a staff like this.

He nodded; she took the silver-white rod. For an instant, she felt an immediate surge in power, like a second wind. Reluctantly, she returned it, feeling her spellpower recede, and he slung it proudly on his back.

“I trust you still have the package?”

“Yes.” She reached into her robe and drew it from an inner pocket. “It's been on me twenty-four hours a day since then.” She chuckled a little. “Even in the privy.”

Sherlock only paused momentarily in reacting to that last piece of information. “Good. Do not give it to John before order has returned to this tower. It may even be better to wait until the Blight has ended.”

“Until the Blight – Sherlock, do you know how long that could...?” She stopped cold, seeing his look. Of course he did. He would not have asked, otherwise. “Understood. I will.”

Then, without warning, she pulled back and slapped him across the face – once, twice, three times.

The cracks rang out like thunder in the small space.

As he touched his reddening cheek, fingers glowing with soothing frost, and looked at her with genuine bewilderment, she shook her head. “I can't believe – you know how much he cares for you! And deny it all you want, I know you care for him, too.” She held out the package as proof. “How can you do this to him?”

Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment. “Molly...it would take too long to explain.”

“That's just another way of saying, 'You won't like my reasons, so I'm not telling you.'” She crossed her arms. “I may not know as much as you, but I know this isn't how you treat people you really care about.”

“I'm doing this _precisely_ because of how much he cares for me,” Sherlock said. He paused for a long moment. “And...vice versa.”

Molly frowned. “That makes absolutely no sense.”

“Emotions seldom do.”

_Which is why you don't bother with them. I get it._ She grudgingly conceded the point. If anyone understood that, she did. Maker's breath, perhaps she understood just as much as _he_ didn't seem to. “Well, I hope you have a better explanation for _him_ when he finds you. You owe him that much.”

“And I don't owe you more?”

The tone of his question startled her; it was almost surprised, not glib as she would have expected.

“You have held my life in your hand, Molly,” he said quietly when she didn't answer. “You don't think that's worth more than – than what John has done for me?”

There was silence for a minute or two.

Slowly, she shook her head. “Not to me, it isn't. You don't owe me anything, Sherlock. Not now, not ever.” _Not even your friendship,_ she added silently.

And again he surprised her; there was no eager gleam in his eye at his slate having been wiped clean, not even a hint of self-satisfaction. Instead, he looked at her with a mixture of apprehension and...was that awe?

“You won't...?”

She took a deep breath. “You've trusted me all this time. I'm not about to betray you.” Frowning again, she looked up at him. “But that doesn't mean I have to like it.”

“Thank you, Molly.” He was quiet for a few moments. “None of this would have been possible without you. And...I'm sorry.” He leaned down and kissed her cheek one last time.

She didn't have to ask what he was sorry for. Boldly, she reached out and squeezed his hand, knowing it would be the last chance she had to do so, and savored the feeling of those long, lovely fingers wrapped around hers. “It's all right. I didn't mind. Good luck. And watch your back.” To anyone else she would have said, “Stay safe” or “Be careful” but when it came to him, those words would be like using a thimble to douse a fire.

He returned her clasp, gently, and genuinely smiled at her for the first time that night. It was electrifying. “I hope you'll be happy. You deserve it.”

Unable to speak around the lump forming in her throat, she merely nodded.

There was a distant clatter. Molly's heart leaped. Was someone coming?

She released his hand, and said the last words she ever thought she would: “Sherlock, _go_.”

His final words before he ran out of her life forever were: “I won't forget you, or what you've done, Molly Hooper.”

And the hawk dove, swooped, and soared away.

o~O~o

For many years, remembering that night kept her warm in even the coldest winters, even more than her favorite feather blanket or the memory of the little rook flying free. One aspect in particular never failed to make her smile.

She and Sherlock heard John – dear, sweet John – ask for one more miracle that night.

All three of them, for different reasons, later agreed on this:

There was no greater miracle than the gift of flight.

 

“ _You can't give your heart to a wild thing: the more you do, the stronger they get. Until they're strong enough to run into the woods. Or fly into a tree. Then a taller tree. Then the sky. That's how you'll end up.... If you let yourself love a wild thing. You'll end up looking at the sky.”_

_~ Holly Golightly,_ Breakfast at Tiffany's

**Author's Note:**

>  _Thank you so much for reading! Hope you enjoyed. :) And special thanks to OtakuElf (always), cee cee, Chloebroefan, azure_rosa (who has some very nice Snape/Lupin fic, if that's your bag), sherlocked_bootoye, rhyraptor, and all the anons I wish I could thank personally. You all rock, and I always love hearing from you. :)_  
>  _An extra thank-you goes to Ariane DeVere, whose wonderful episode transcripts always have been, and ever shall be, an invaluable resource. You can find them[here](http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/tag/sherlock%20episode%20transcript)._  
>  _Btw, as happy as I am with it, don't ask me where the bird motif came from. I have no idea. Though perhaps it was partially inspired by Bird!lock from RosiePaw's excellent_[The Tale of Tsarevich Ivan Watovich and the Bird of Flame](http://archiveofourown.org/works/993171), _which might just be one of my all-time favorite incarnations of him. (And yes, some magpies really do snatch songbirds from the air; before they were seen doing so, scientists thought that behavior was exclusive to birds of prey. Nature is amazing. David Attenborough's excellent series_ The Life of Birds _was rather inspiring in this regard. Molly and Sherlock's “dance”, for example? Inspired by the incredibly beautiful streamer-tailed hummingbird.)_  
>  _This actually turned out a lot less angsty than I thought it would. Man, even life in Thedas and Kinloch Hold can't keep Molly down. How can you not love her for that? :)_  
> 


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